


BUS TO THE FUTURE

by breezy_mcwheezy



Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Magic School Bus
Genre: Crossover, HEAVILY Inspired by Back to the Future, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Inspired by Back to the Future, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Unholy Matrimony Of Science, the crossover nobody asked for, time travel paradox
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 03:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20324308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breezy_mcwheezy/pseuds/breezy_mcwheezy
Summary: A horribly well-written crossover between 'Back to the Future' and 'The Magic School Bus', in which Miss Frizzle is Doc Brown and Arnold Perlstein is Marty McFly





	1. MEET ARNOLD MCFLY

**Author's Note:**

> Before this even begins, I'm so sorry to everyone. I really am. This is something that should not exist whatsoever. At this time, this is an unfinished project. With encouragement, I might finish this, but I'm not sure if I really want to.
> 
> With my apologies being written, please enjoy the show.

_ Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. _

It was October 25th, 1985. It was two minutes until 8 AM on October 25th, 1985, to be exact (at least, all of the clocks on the wall told that much). There were an assortment of clocks; cuckoo clocks, digital clocks, a grandfather clock, Felix the Cat with moving eyes, and many more. And every single one ticked away in dead sync. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

Between each clock, in whatever space there was left available, was filled with an assortment of mess. A spare jet engine in the middle of repair. Unpaid bills marked overdue. Automotive tools. Electronic parts. Discarded Burger King wrappers. A video camera. An unmade army cot, covered in patchwork quilts from grandmother’s house and magazines of quite questionable content that said grandmother would never approve of.

With a snap and a fizzle, a radio clock roared to life, a static-covered voice calling out amongst the house-turned-lab.

_ “...October is inventory time. So right now, Statler Toyota is making the best deals of the year on all 1985 model Toyotas. You won't find a better car with a better price with better service anywhere in Walkerville...” _

Like a Rube Goldberg machine come to life, the coffee maker kicked on and began drip-drip-dripping boiling water onto a wet hot plate. Where was his pot? Where was his covering? He hissed loudly with every drip, before roaring as he began to pour water on himself, soiling himself in shame. And with the coffee maker alive and clearly in distress, a television set turned on, flipping to a newscast.

_ “The Senate is expected to vote on this today. In other news, officials at The Pacific Nuclear Research Facility have denied the rumor that the case of missing plutonium was in fact stolen from their vault two weeks ago. A Libyan terrorist group had claimed responsibility for the alleged theft, however, the officials now infer the crepency to a simple clerical error. The FBI, which is still investigating the matter, had no comment…” _

The television triggered a toaster, a toaster with two burnt pieces of toast sitting on top of it. At one point, somewhere in the past, perhaps a week ago, two weeks ago, they had been fresh bread. Two soft slices of sourdough bread, perfectly crafted by not artisans, no, but a factory press. Now, they were blackened and harder than rock, stale enough to break the mayor’s gold tooth. The two slices dropped back down into the toaster, once again to be burnt, this time to ashen crisps.

Another click, another timer, and a metal arm extended to drop a container of lizard feed into an already overfilled bowl in a tank. The tank was dusty and overheated, overrun by uneaten cockroach corpses being grilled by the heat lamp. Across the top of the tank, in sparkly glitter glue, the words “THE HONOURABLE LIZ ARD” was scrawled on the glass, like some shoddy label forged at the witching hour by someone not completely there mentally whatsoever. 

With a jingle and a click, the lock on the service door unlocked as someone pushed the door open. A teenage boy, with bright curly hair and glasses too big for his face, carrying a skateboard.

“Hey, Friz? Friz? Hello, anybody home? Liz, come here, girl. What's going on?”

Silence. Nothing but silence. He sighed and pushed up his glasses, dropping his skateboard to the floor and letting it roll away under the cot, bouncing off a yellow box. Something else caught his eye. Something big and bold. 

He ran across the laboratory, marvelling at the beaut before him. Oh, it was gorgeous. Connect wires to the terminal, flipping switches on, turn the rheostats, needle gauges jumping to life, turning the sound from three all the way up to ten. And a high-school student with guitar at the ready, standing before a ten-foot-tall amp. He took a deep breath, then slammed on the guitar.

With a roar and a bang, the speaker blew out on the amp, the force being more than enough to throw him into the bookshelf behind him and bringing it all down on his head in a loud crash. He blinked, once, twice, trying to regain his senses.

“Aw, God. Aw, Jesus,” he mumbled, pushing up his glasses on his nose, “holy shit.”

He picked himself up from the rubble, dusting off his jeans and jacket. On cue, a loud alarm bell rang. He looked up and went running towards the source, picking up the landline phone.

“Hello?”  
“Arnold, is that you?”

Arnold stretched, holding the receiver to his ear.

“Yeah, it’s me. Friz, where are you?  
“Thank God! I found you! Listen, can you meet me at Twin Pines Mall tonight at 1:15? I've made a major breakthrough and I'll need your assistance.”  
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. 1:15 in the morning?”

He shook his head and rubbed his neck.

“Well, of course, Arnold.”  
“What's going on? Where have you been all week?”  
“Working.”  
“Where's Liz? Is she with you?”  
“Oh, yes, she's right here.”  
“You know, Friz you left your equipment on all week.”  
“My equipment! Oh, that reminds me! Arnold, you better not hook up to the amplifier. There's a, uh, _slight_ possibility for overload.”

Arnold looked over at the wreck he caused.

“Uh, yeah, Friz,” he replied, “I'll, uh, keep that in mind.”  
“Good! I'll see you tonight. Don't forget, now. 1:15 a.m. Twin Pines Mall.”  
“Right-”

Suddenly, in a chaotic and bizarre cacophony, all of the clocks went off at once. Cuckoos, beeping, chimes, music. Everything all at once, creating a loud racket. Arnold clamped his hand over his free ear.

“Oh, are those my clocks that I hear?” the so-called “Friz” asked from the other end of the line. She sounded ecstatic.   
“Yeah, it's 8:00.”  
“They're late. My experiment worked. They're all exactly twenty-five minutes slow.  
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute, Friz. Are you telling me that it's 8:25?  
“Precisely!”  
“Damn it! I'm late for school! Friz, I’ll get back to you.”

And with that, Arnold hung up the phone on the hook with a thud. He scrambled, looking for his skateboard, before letting out an “a-ha!” when he finally found it. He threw on his headphones, grabbed his backpack, and scampered out the door.

He slammed the door behind him and jumped the fence, landing it with practised ease. At one point, he would have gone tumbling into the sidewalk. But practice makes perfect, yes, and now it was second nature. With a kickstart and a press of “PLAY” on his Walkman, he was off to the races, speeding down the sidewalk past the garage and a run-down Burger King. Once again, he was on the streets of Walkerville.

The sight of a truck pulling out gave Arnold an opportunity. He sped out behind it and grabbed onto the truck bed, hitching a tow down the road. It pulled him down the street towards the intersection, where he let go and went soaring around the corner through a town square that had seen better days. The Essex adult movie theatre, featuring “Wet Teenage Sluts”, all seats going for five dollars. The “modern” self-serve Texaco Station, where a struggling old lady pumped her gas with no help. Lou’s Aerobic Fitness Center, where at least fifteen women were exercising in the window. The Bank of America, where people were waiting in line at the Versateller. “Ask Mr Foster Travel” advertising “10 Days In Hawaii”. A dilapidated “WELCOME TO WALKERVILLE” sign on the corner. The main square in front of the courthouse. A parking lot for the Department of Social Services. And the abandoned town theatre, all boarded up with “Assembly Of Christ” still on the marquee. 

Arnold could only shake his head and sigh at the sight of it all, as he hitched another ride on a convertible, waving to the driver. People spoke about Walkerville with high esteem as if it had been a great town at one time. Arnold had never seen it, no. He didn’t believe it, that was for sure. Maybe he was nihilistic, was that it? Whatever his matter was, it didn’t concern him. He had better things to do.


	2. SAVE THE CLOCK TOWER

Walkerville High School had seen better days, truly. Perhaps it had been a shining pearl amongst it all at one time, but now it was run-down and crumbling, covered in graffiti and chipped paint. Arnold stood in front of it all, pulling his headphones off and tucking his skateboard under his arm. Of course, he did love learning. He loved science and studying more than anything. When he was young, he had been the quiet nerd type, sticking his nose in books and hanging out by himself at recess. But the Walkerville school system quickly crushed his dreams and destroyed that passion for school, snuffing out the flame hard and fast. Instead, Arnold just blended into the crowd, a quiet kid with no reputation.

The site of someone coming out of school, however, pulled him from his musings. He raised a hand to wave to her.

“Hey, Wanda.”  
“Arnold, don’t go this way! Ruhle’s looking for you! If you’re caught, it’ll be four tardies in a row!”

Wanda, of course. Darling Wanda, his lovely girlfriend, always watching out for him. She bounded down the steps, grabbing Arnold’s hand and yanking him up behind her. The two scampered past the main entrance, ducking under windows and giggling in hushed whispers. Wanda was too smart for her own good, crafty too, and she knew where to go. She had propped open a side door with a stick, just enough to slide her fingers through the crack and pull it open, but not enough to be noticeable to anyone else. And the two slipped in through the side door without detection.

“Alright. I think we’re safe,” Wanda said after a moment. The two strolled through the hallways towards first block. English class, of course.  
“Y'know, in my defense, this time, it wasn't my fault. The Friz set all of her clocks twenty-five minutes slow-”  
“Friz? Am I to understand you're still hanging around with Professor Valerie Frizzle, Perlstein?”

Arnold and Wanda jumped at the sound of Principal Ruhle’s voice. The two turned around on their heels suddenly, staring the towering man in the face.

“Tardy slip for you, Miss Li. And one for you, Perlstein. I believe that makes four in a row,” Ruhle continued. He paused for a moment, before turning to Arnold, looking down on him, “Now let me give you a nickel's worth of free advice, young man. This so-called Professor Frizzle is dangerous. She's a real nutcase. You fool around with her, you're gonna end up in big trouble.”

Arnold grinned at the proposition. Of course, why wouldn’t he? The Friz was full of trouble. But she was the fun sort-of trouble.

“Oh, yes, sir.”  
“You got a real attitude problem, Perlstein. You're a slacker. You remind me of your father when he went here. He was a slacker too.”  
“Can I go now, Principal Ruhle?”  
“I noticed your band is on the roster for dance auditions after school today. Why even bother, Perlstein? You haven't got a chance. You're too much like your own man. No Perlstein ever amounted to anything in the history of Walkerville.”  
“Yeah, well, history is gonna change.”

Would history change? Maybe. Maybe not. But one thing was for certain, impatience was the only thing in Arnold’s head as he went through the school day. The clock could not tick by fast enough. When three o’clock hit and the bell dismissed them all, Arnold was almost running to the gym in order to make auditions. 

Of course, he wasn’t alone. The rest of his own band, of course, other bands who wanted a shot at “making big”, at least for one night. Nerves were high and the stakes were higher, as band after band was shot down. “Next, next, next,” seemed to be all the judges said. And it wasn’t long before Arnold was taking the stage. The only form of reassurance he had was Wanda across the gym, crossing her fingers and giving him a smile.

“Alright, we’re the Pinheads.”

And into they went, just as rehearsed. A Van Halen hit that they knew by heart and knew well. The sound seemed to swallow all the boys whole, and they revelled in it. Arnold had been late to the game on blooming, but at least he bloomed well. 

“Okay, that's enough.” 

Arnold looked up from his guitar, the judges staring at them with a megaphone in hand.

“Now, stop the microphone. I'm sorry, fellas. I'm afraid you're just too darn loud. Next, please. Where's the next group, please?”

Too darn loud? _ Too darn loud? _

* * *

“I’m too loud. I can’t believe. I’m never gonna get a chance to play in front of anybody.”

Arnold shuffled down the sidewalk next to Wanda, guitar case in one hand and skateboard in the other. He sighed, pushing up his glasses and kicking at a stray rock.

“Arnold, one rejection isn’t the end of the world.”  
“Nah, I just don’t think I’m cut out for music.”  
“But you’re good, Arnold. You’re really good. And this audition tape of your’s is great,” Wanda said, reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a cassette tape, offering it to Arnold, “You gotta send it in to the record company. It’s like the Friz’s always saying.”  
“Yeah, I know. _‘Take chances, make mistakes, get messy.’_”  
“That’s good advice, Arnold. You should take it.”  
“Alright, okay, Wanda,” he replied, taking the tape, “Say I do send in the tape. What if they don’t like it? I mean, what if they say I’m no good? What if they say ‘get out of here, kid, you’ve got no future’? I mean, I just don’t think I could handle that kind of rejection.”

Arnold paused for a moment.

“Aw, Jesus, Wanda, I’m starting to sound like my old man.”  
“Well, they do say all of our emotional anxieties come from our parents.”  
“In that case, you can kiss me off right now.”  
“Oh, come on, Arnold. He’s not _that_ bad.”  
“I think deep down, he does mean well, yeah, but the man just can’t seem to get it together.”  
“Well, I mean, he’s letting us borrow the car tomorrow night, isn’t he? That’s a step in the right direction.”

Arnold shrugged and avoided Wanda’s eyes, instead looking over to the car depot across the street as the two sat down on a bench. The sight of a four-by-four truck caught his eyes, and he raised a hand to point at it.

“Check out that truck, Wanda. Wouldn’t that be great to take up to the lake tomorrow night? We could put our sleeping bags in the back. Lie out under the stars. Someday, Wanda, someday.”  
“Oh, hush that. Does your mother know about tomorrow night?”  
“No, get out of town, my mom thinks I'm going camping with the guys. My mother would freak out if she knew I was going up there with you. I’d get this standard lecture about how she never did that kind of stuff when she was a kid. She must have been a real goody two-shoes. I think she was born a nun.”

Wanda laughed at his joke, before leaning in towards him.

“I mean, she _ is _ just trying to keep your respectable.”  
“Well, she’s not doing a very good job.”

Arnold leaned in to close the distance. 

“A terrible job, really.”

So close, so close-

_ “Sah-aaave the clocktower!” _

Arnold and Wanda yanked backward as a protestor jumped into their faces. She was followed by a group of other middle-aged women carrying signs and pointing to the clocktower on the top of the courthouse behind them.

“Mayor Wilson is sponsoring an initiative to replace that clock. Thirty years ago, lightning struck that clock tower and the clock hasn't run since. We at the Walkerville Preservation Society think it should be preserved exactly the way it is as part of our history and heritage.”

Arnold sighed, rummaging in his pocket. He pulled out a quarter and dropped it into the protestor’s tin can.

“Here you go, ma’am. A shiny new quarter.”  
“Thank you, young man! Take a flyer! It tells the whole story of the clock tower!”

Much to Arnold’s protest, the woman shoved a flyer into his open hand. Wanda could only smile and laugh, all of this much to her delight. The short and stout protestor moved along to annoy some other poor sap.

“Now,” Wanda said, “where were we?”

Once again, the two leaned in. Closer, closer, almost there-

The sharp sound of a car honk ripped the two apart once again. Wanda rolled her eyes.

“That’s my dad,” she grumbled, standing from the bench and grabbing her backpack.  
“This is not my day. I’ll call you tonight.”  
“I’m actually going to be at my grandma’s. Here, I’ll give you the number.”

She pulled a pen from her jacket and took the flyer from Arnold, scrawling on the back of it before handing it back to him. She gave him a smile and waved, before running across the street and getting in her dad’s car. Arnold waved back at her, before folding up the flyer and tucking it into his pocket. It was time to go home.


	3. GULLIBLE

“Oh,  _ great _ .”

Once again, Arnold had returned to the dilapidated housing division he called home. Lyon’s Estates was once meant to be a crown jewel of Walkerville. It was to be the perfect nuclear suburbia. But those days were long gone and most of the houses were reminiscent of trailers. Last week, one of his neighbours was arrested for selling crack cocaine out of their basement. The month before, a murder a few streets over. It was a shake-up to see what would happen next. It was like throwing darts at a dartboard and seeing what stuck.

The real kicker, the topper on the cake, was the fact that a tower was in his driveway dropping off his father’s car. A car that had the entire front bumper ripped off and windshield shattered. Did Arnold want to know? No. Was he going to know? Oh, yeah, definitely.

He pushed open the front door to a sore sight. His father being ridiculed by his boss, Garth Sinew. 

“I can’t believe you did this, Perlstein! You loaned me your car without telling me it had a blind spot! I could have been killed, Perlstein!”  
“N-now, now, Garth, I never noticed any blind spot before when I would drive it. Hi, son.”

Arnold gave his father a wave, trying to sneak on by.

“But, what are you blind, Perlstein, it's there. How else do you explain that wreck out there?”  
“Now, Garth, um,” Mr Perlstein said, pushing up his glasses, “can I assume that your insurance is gonna pay for the damage?”  
“_My_ insurance? It's _your_ car! _Your_ insurance should pay for it! Hey, I wanna know who's gonna pay for this?” Garth roared, gesturing to his tacky suit, “I spilled beer all over it when that car smashed into me. Who's gonna pay my cleaning bill?”  
“Uh…”  
“And where's my reports?”  
“Uh, well, actually, I haven’t finished those up yet. I figured since they weren’t due until Monday-”  
“Hello? Hello? Anybody home?” Garth knocked on Mr Perlstein’s head, “Think, Perlstein, think! I’ve gotta have time to get them re-typed! Do you realize what would happen if I hand in my reports in your handwriting? I'll get fired! You wouldn't want that to happen, would you? Would you?”  
“Of course not, Garth, no. I wouldn't want that to happen. Now, uh, I'll finish those reports up tonight, and I'll run ‘em them on over first thing tomorrow, alright?”  
“Hey, not too early. I sleep in on Saturday. Oh, Perlstein, your shoe's untied.” 

Mr. Perlstein looked down, only to get flicked in the face. 

“Don't be so gullible, Perlstein,” Garth laughed, before strutting across the living room into the kitchen, getting into the fridge. “You got the place fixed up nice, Perlstein. I have your car towed all the way to your house and all you've got for me is light beer.” 

Garth paused, looking over to Arnold.

“What are you looking at, four eyes? Say hi to your mom for me.”

And with that, Garth left, leaving Arnold and his father in silence.

“I know what you're gonna say, son, and you're right, you're right. But Garth just happens to be my supervisor, and I'm afraid I'm not very good at confrontations.”  
“The car, Dad! I mean, he wrecked it, totalled it! I needed that car tomorrow night, Dad! I mean, do you have any idea how important this was? Do you have any clue?”  
“I know, and all I could say is I'm sorry.”  
“Dad, did it ever occur to you to just say ‘no’? To just once try saying ‘no’?”  
“Son, I know it’s hard for you to understand, but the fact is, I’m just not a fighter.”  
“Try it once, Dad. Just one time, say ‘no’. N-O. ‘No.’” 

Almost as if on cue, a rapping noise was heard on the screen door. It opened and in stepped their pot-bellied neighbour and his young daughter, whom of which was wearing her softball uniform.

“Howdy, Perlstein! My daughter is selling peanut brittle for her softball team! It’s five bucks a pack! I’m putting you down for a case, okay, Perlstein?”

Arnold shook his head, before looking to his father. Mr Perlstein gulped.

“Well, okay.”  
“See, Michelle?” their neighbour said, “I told you we only needed to go to one house.”

Arnold shook his head hopelessly.

* * *

Arnold would have liked to have said dinner went better. He would have liked to have said dinner was eaten quickly and in silence. It was far from the case. Dinner was meatloaf, Kraft macaroni and cheese, Bird’s Eye mixed vegetables, and French’s instant mashed potatoes. And of course, for his mother, a heaping glass of vodka, and for his father, nothing but work.

“Believe me, son, you’re better off not having the aggravation of dealing with that YMCA dance,” Mr Perlstein said, looking between his work and the re-run of Honeymooner’s, “You’d have to worry about getting all of your equipment there, making contingency plans if someone got sick, making sure you got paid correctly, settling with the Musician’s Union. And what if you were so good that other people wanted to hire you? You’d have to worry about scheduling your jobs around school. Believe me, son, you’re better off without those headaches.”  
“He’s right, Arnold,” interrupted Arnold’s brother, Matthew, “if there’s one thing you don’t need, it’s headaches.”

Arnold nodded unenthusiastically, poking at his food. He watched as Matthew scarfed his food down, managing not to get it on his McDonald’s uniform, and looked to his cousin Janet, who was staying with them due to... _ unfortunate _ circumstances.

His mom came out of the kitchen, carrying a large cake. It was covered in white icing, save for a blackbird flying free from a barred prison window and writing saying “WELCOME HOME, UNCLE ALEX.”

“Well, kids, it looks like we’re going to have to eat this cake by ourselves. Your uncle Alex didn’t make parole again. It’d be nice if you dropped him a line.”  
“Oh, yeah, good ol’ Jailbird Joey,” Arnold muttered.  
“He’s your brother, Mom,” said Matthew.  
“Yeah, it’s kinda a major embarrassment to have a dad in jail,” Janet mumbled, pushing away her plate.  
“We all make mistakes in life, children.”

The three of them rolled their eyes, before Matthew looked down at his watch.

“God damn it, I’m late for work I’m going to miss my bus,” he said. He wiped off his mouth and stood from the table, hurrying out the door.  
“Language, Matthew!”

The rest of them watched him leave, before Janet spoke up, looking to Arnold.

“Hey, Arnold, I'm not your answering service,” she snarled, “but while you were outside pouting about the car, Wanda Li called you twice.”  
“I don't like her, Arnold. Any girl who calls a boy is just asking for trouble.”  
“Oh Aunt Ruth, there's nothing wrong with calling a boy.  
“I think it's terrible. Girls chasing boys. When I was your age, I never chased a boy, or called a boy, or sat in a parked car with a boy. Because when you act like that, Janet, boys won’t respect you. They’ll think you’re cheap.”  
“Then how am I supposed to ever meet anybody?”  
“Well, it will just happen,” Mrs Perlstein replied. She stood from the table, going to pour herself more vodka, “Like the way I met your uncle.”  
“That was so stupid. Grandpa hit him with the car.”  
“It was meant to be. Anyway, if Grandpa hadn't hit him, then neither one of your cousins would have been born.”

Janet narrowed her eyes at Arnold. She was clearly imagining what a wonderful world that could have been, and Arnold could tell.

“Yeah, well, I still don't understand what Uncle Isaac was doing in the middle of the street.”  
“What was it, Isaac, bird watching?”

Mr Perlstein looked up from his work, not paying attention to his wife nor niece.

“What, Ruth, what?” he asked. Mrs Perlstein just shook her head.  
“Anyway, Grandpa hit him with the car and brought him into the house. He seemed so helpless, like a little lost puppy, my heart just went out for him.”  
“Yeah, Aunt Ruth, we know, you've told us this story a million times. You felt sorry for him so you decided to go with him to ‘The Fish Under The Sea Dance’.”  
“No, it was ‘Enchantment Under The Sea Dance’. Our first date. It was the night of that terrible thunderstorm, remember, Isaac? Your uncle kissed me for the very first time on that dance floor. It was then I realized I was going to spend the rest of my life with him.”

Janet rolled her eyes, looking to Arnold incredulously. 

“I can’t believe Dad actually got the nerve to kiss you in public,” Arnold said.  
“Well, I may have encouraged him a little.”  
“I’ll bet you had to practically jump on his bones.”

Arnold stood up from the table, pushing in his chair and heading back to his room, leaving Janet and his parents in silence. Mrs Perlstein looked over at her husband, a faraway and dreamy look in her eyes.

“Thinking back on it, I did.”

* * *

Hours later, Arnold had fallen asleep on his bed, sprawled out in his clothes. His room was covered with posters for sci-fi movies and bands, his desk littered with music and books, rocks from childhood rock collections that he couldn’t part with, lead sheets, a portable home synthesizer, and cassette tapes galore. In his trash can lay a few things. A demo tape for the Pinheads, a letter and envelope to “R & G Records: New Talent Division”, and other odds and ends. The digital clock next to his bed blinked and read almost 12:30. But it was the sound of his cordless phone beeping that woke him up. It pulled him from his slumber, forcing him to wake up to answer.

“Hello?”  
“Arnold, you didn’t fall asleep, now, did you?”

The Friz, of course. Arnold rubbed his eyes and rolled over onto his back.

“Uh, no, no, of course not. Don’t be silly.”  
“Of course. Listen, I forgot my video camera. Could you stop by my place and pick it up on your way to the mall?”  
“Yeah, uh, sure. I’m on my way.”

Arnold reached over and hung up the phone, before sitting up on his bed, rubbing his face. Slowly, he pulled himself into a stand and looked at the clock. Late. Quite late. No reason to be up at this hour, not at all. 

He searched his room, gathering extra pillows and blankets and shuffling back to his bed, stuffing them under his bedsheets and forming them into a relatively human shape. It would work. His mom would be none the wiser and it’d be enough to get him through whatever shenanigans the Friz had planned for the night. 

Arnold searched his room once more, putting on his orange vest and grabbing his Walkman and skateboard. He sighed, looking around his room one more time and opening his window. He had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad feeling in his stomach. Something was telling him to stay in, don’t go out, whatever this was, call the Friz and call it off. Something deeply, deeply,  _ deeply _ was wrong.

“I  _ really _ should stay home today,” Arnold mumbled, before climbing out his window, shutting it behind him.


	4. THE MAGIC SCHOOL BUS

The Twin Pines Mall was where teenagers went to cause chaos. They’d go after school, smoke and hotbox in the parking lot, steal from the vendors inside, screw around the bathrooms. It wasn’t to say that Arnold never participated in those things, no. Arnold just didn’t care for such things. He had better things to do then to hang around the Twin Pines Mall, and he certainly didn’t have the money for it. But here he was, camera in tow, rolling to the shoulder of the road and looking down at the parking lot below. 

His footsteps were heavy in the wet grass as he stumbled down the lawn towards the parking lot, towards a large trailer that said “PROFESSOR V. FRIZZLE ENTERPRISES - 24 HOUR SCIENTIFIC SERVICE”. As he came closer, a few boxes, some equipment, and a suitcase came into view, along with a lizard sitting on top of the horde. She wore a digital timer around her neck, and seemed bored with it all. 

Slowly, Arnold crossed the fog covered parking lot, shivering a bit at the atmosphere. There was something heavy hanging in the air, something he couldn’t put his finger on. And he didn’t like it.

“Friz? Hello?” he called out to the air. Arnold leant down to pet Liz, “Hey, Liz. Where’s the Friz? Where’s the Friz, girl?”

The sound of an engine roaring to life filled the air, causing Arnold to jolt up, looking for the source. Slowly, the back of the truck rolled up and a ramp rolled out, and with it, fog bellowed from the open trailer. Gradually, steadily, a short and small yellow school bus began to descend the ramp. Well, what one could call a school bus. It was covered in strange space-age devices, coils galore, and technology that Arnold couldn’t understand. He could only step back and gawk as it slowly rolled out onto the pavement and pulled up next to him. Slowly, the doors opened. And out stepped Professor Valerie Frizzle.

She was at the end of being middle-aged and past the age for qualifying for Social Security, messy red curls and streaks of white pulled back into an unkempt bun. Despite her obvious age, she was still full of life and energy, made clearly evident by her eyes, a dark brown that seemed to take in everything and everyone. And she wore some sort of white jumpsuit, that did not at all match the strange earrings that she wore.

“Good evening, Arnold. Welcome to my latest experiment. This is the big one. The one I’ve been waiting for all my life.”  
“Friz, why is it a school bus?”  
“Bear with me, Arnold, and all of your questions shall be answered. Roll tape, we’ll proceed."  
“Friz, is that a DEVO suit?”  
“Nevermind that now, nevermind that now.”

Arnold shook his head in disbelief and confusion, and instead raised the camera, focusing it on the Friz. He pointed at her to signal go.

“Good evening. I'm Professor Valerie F. Frizzle. I'm standing on the parking lot of the Twin Pines Mall. It's Saturday morning, October 26, 1985, 1:18 a.m. and this is temporal experiment number one.”

The Friz reached over, picking up Liz and climbing up into the bus, setting her in the driver’s seat. Carefully, she buckled the lizard up.

“There you go, Lizzy. Good girl. Please note that Liz’s clock here is in precise synchronization with my control watch.”

She leaned over, comparing the watch around Liz’s neck with a stopwatch she wore on around her own neck on a lanyard. Both were in a dead sync.

“Good luck, my dear Lizzy. Have a good trip.”

With that, the Friz started the ignition to the bus and climbed down, shutting the door behind her. She stepped to the side and snapped the suitcase open, pulling a remote controller from the case. It was heavily modified, yes, with each control labelled. A button labelled “ACCELERATOR”, a button labelled “BREAK”, a joystick, and a L.E.D. digital readout labelled “MILES PER HOUR”. With a quick flip, the Friz flipped the controller’s power on and with a steady and practiced hand, used the accelerator and joystick to navigate the bus towards the other far end of the parking lot and turning it to point it towards them, leaving the motor in idle.

“Here we go, Arnold. Camera on the bus, not on me. Not today. Now, if my calculations are correct, when this baby hits 88 miles an hour, you’re gonna see some serious shit.”  
“Can the bus even go that fast?”

The Friz dropped her safety goggles down over her eyes, a grin filling her features.

“Watch me.”

And with that, the bus took off. It sped across the parking lot, the speedometer steadily climbing. 

Arnold was getting it all on tape. 

The Friz had her eyes on the prize. 

The bus kept accelerating. Closer and closer to the Friz and Arnold. 

85.

The coils around the bus began to glow.

88.

The bus was engulfed in a blinding white glow. Then with a sonic boom, a BANG in the night, gone. As if it never existed, leaving only a trail of flames in its wake, along with a license plate. A vanity plate, to be exact. “NO TIME”. The Friz and Arnold were hit with a sharp blast of air.

“What did I tell you?” the Friz yelled, clearly overjoyed and elated by her success. She threw a hand up in the air and let out a loud _“WAHOO!”_, before breaking into loud laughter, “88 miles per hour! Temporal displacement occurred at exactly-”

She pulled off her goggles, looked down, and checked her watch, before continuing with her spiel.

“Exactly 1:02 AM and zero seconds!”  
“Christ Almighty, Friz! You disintegrated Liz!”  
“Nuh-uh-uh, now. Not so fast, my dear, Arnold,” the Friz chimed. She spun to look at Arnold, “I didn’t disintegrate anything. The molecular structure of Liz and the bus are completely and utterly intact.”  
“Then where the hell are they?”  
“The appropriate question is: _WHEN_ the hell are they? You see, Liz has just become the world’s first time-traveller! I sent her into the future! One minute into the future, to be exact! At, at exactly 1:03 AM and zero seconds, we shall catch up to her...and the time machine!”  
“Time machine?! Are you trying to tell me you built a time machine out of a school bus?!”

The Friz smiled at Arnold, as modest as an egotistical woman like her possibly could.

“The way I figured it, if you’re going to build a time machine into a car, why not do it with some style? Besides, it was the only thing that I could get away with stealing from the junkyard-”

The Friz’s digital timer began to beep, and she looked down once again.

“Ten seconds! Roll tape! And brace yourself for a sudden displacement of air!”

Arnold turned and aimed the camera right at where the bus disappeared, as the Friz dropped her goggles once again. She gripped the remote control tightly, bracing herself and commencing countdown.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1!”

The two could feel their hair stand on end, charged up with static electricity. Suddenly, a sharp blast of wind seemed to materialise out of nowhere, following by another deafening sonic boom. The bus appeared right where it vanished, still going full-speed.

The Friz hit the brake. The bus’s tires locked up and it skid across the parking lot until coming to a stop with a screeching halt next to them and the truck. Smoke billowed off the body. Slowly, the two approached the bus. It was the Friz who reached out towards the door, before recoiling in pain and hissing.

“Is it hot?” Arnold asked, immediately growing concerned. The Friz shook her hand.  
“It’s cold. Damn cold.”

Using her shoe, the Friz pried open the door and climbed up. Inside, Liz sat in the driver seat, completely unphased. Once again, the Friz compared their watches. While the Friz’s watch read 1:21:10, Liz’s read 1:20:10.

“Exactly one minute difference,” she said, snapping her fingers, “and still ticking!”  
“Is Liz alright?” Arnold asked, looking at the lizard.

The Friz unbuckled Liz, letting the small reptile climb up her arm and perch on her shoulder, carrying her down from the bus. Liz climbed down the Friz, instead contenting herself with waddling across the parking lot and climbing into the front of the truck.

“Look at you go, Liz! Just fine! And completely unaware that anything happened. As far as she’s concerned, the trip was instantaneous. That’s why her watch is a minute behind mine. She ‘skipped over’ that minute to instantly arrive at this moment in time. Come here, let me show you how it works.”

Arnold was still skeptical and uneasy. Of course? Why wasn’t he? Time travel had been deemed impossible by all laws of physics. How did the Friz manage to figure it out? Sure, the woman was a genius, a damn genius, but time travel? That seemed out of her limit.

Despite his doubt, the Friz beckoned him towards the bus, like a child who wanted to show off her new toy. And Arnold couldn’t help but shuffle towards her and follow her up into the bus as she sat down in the driver’s seat. A good choice to make. Once again, he was left gawking at the internals, unsure what anything was for and what anything meant. 

“First, you turn the time circuits on.”

Just like that, the Friz flipped a labelled switch. An array of indicator lights came on. 

“This readout tells you where you’re going, this one tells you where you are, this one tells you where you were.”

And, of course, on the LED display, each readout was respectively labelled “DESTINATION TIME”, “PRESENT TIME”, and “LAST TIME DEPARTED”. 

“You input your destination time on this keypad. Want to see the signing of the Declaration of Independence?”

She punched in “7-4-1776”. The “DESTINATION TIME” lit up with the correct display.

“Or witness the birth of Christ?”

She punched in “12-25-0”. 

“Here’s a red-letter date in the history of science. November 5th, 1955-”

The Friz paused. Blinked. Something had just clicked in her brain. The pieces fell into place just right and a forgotten thought, a memory, came back to her with a flash. It all made sense now.

“Yes, of course! November 5th, 1955!”  
“What happened then?” Arnold asked.  
“That was the day I invented time travel,” the Friz mused. She crossed her arms and leaned back in the driver’s seat of the bus. “I remember it vividly. I was standing on the edge of my toilet, hanging a clock. The porcelain was wet. I slipped and hit my head on the sink and when I came to, I had a revelation! A vision! A picture in my head! A picture of _this_!”

The Friz turned and pointed to a certain centrepiece in the bus, mounted with a place of honour. It seemed to glow and crackle. Arnold aimed the video camera at it.

“This,” the Friz continued, “is what makes time travel possible. The Flux Capacitor!”  
“Flux Capacitor, huh?”  
“It’s taken me almost thirty years and my entire family fortune to fulfil the vision of that day...my God, has it been that long? I’ve been working on this-”

The Friz pulled a pocket abacus out of her suit.

  
“29 years, 11 months, and 355 days, excluding vacations, of course. Almost 30 years. Amazing. Things have certainly changed. This all used to be farmland here, as far as the eye can see.”  
“This is heavy, Professor. And it runs on, like, regular unleaded gasoline?”  
“Unfortunately, no. It requires something with a little more, well, _kick_.”

The Friz gestured to a container with purple radioactivity symbols on it. Arnold squinted as he read it.

“Plutonium?! You mean this sucker’s nuclear?!”  
“Electrical, but I need a nuclear reactor to generate the 1.21 gigawatts of electricity I need. The Flux Capacitor stores it, then discharges it all at once. Like a gigantic bolt of lightning!”

On cue, the Friz’s earrings flashed. Lightning bolts. Of course.

“Hold the phone, Friz,” Arnold said, “Plutonium is illegal. Did you rip it off?”  
“Of course! From a group of Libyan nationalists. They wanted me to build them a bomb. I took their plutonium and in turn gave them a shiny bomb casing full of used pinball parts. Let’s make sure Liz is in the truck. We must prepare to reload!”

And reloading they were. Of course, oh so conveniently, the Friz had a spare radiation suit for Arnold. And, oh so conveniently, of course, she made him put it on and wear it as he videotaped her changing out the plutonium on the bus. Remove the plutonium rod from the case, of course, and place it into the loading hopper in the back of the bus. It simply dropped into the reactor and sealed itself shut, easy and simple as that. The Friz prioritised convenience when it came to the bus.

“It’s safe now,” the Friz called out, removing her hood, “everything is lead-lined.”

Arnold sighed, removing his own hood. This had been a hell of a night already. Time travel. The Friz had invented time travel. And here he was, the first witness of it.

“Oh, I mustn’t forget my luggage!”  
“What?”

The Friz picked up her suitcase and opened the bus door, throwing the suitcase in the back of the bus.

“Who knows if they’ll have cotton underwear in the future? I’m allergic to all synthetics.”  
“The future? Is that where you’re going?” Arnold asked. A part of him seemed to deflate.   
“That’s right! 25 years in the future! I’ve always dreamed of seeing the future! Looking beyond my years, observing the progress of mankind.”

She paused, before smiling wryly.

“I’ll also be able to figure out who wins the next 25 World Series.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. Of course, she would.

“Well, be sure to look me up when you get there and I’ll fill you in on what’s been happening.”  
“Indeed. I will.”

The Friz cleared her throat, before addressing the camera. 

“I, Professor Valerie Felicity Frizzle, am about to embark on a historic journey-”

The sound of a car motor roaring into the parking lot interrupted the Friz’s speech. She whirled around, her head snapping towards the source. Her face paled in horror. An ominous van was racing towards them. Instinctively, she stepped in front of Arnold.

“My God. They found me. I don’t know how, but they found me.”  
“Who?”  
“The Libyans I ripped off.”

The van door slides open and a strange character leaned out. A terrorist, of course. He drew an AK-47 on the trio, aiming for the Friz.

“Run for it, Arnold! I’ll draw their fire!”

Quick on her feet, the Friz ran for the truck. She jumped up on the driver’s side, yanking opening the door and pulling a gun. She jumped down, her boots slamming on the pavement. She aimed at the assaulter, pulling the trigger. Nothing. No hitting on the butt of the gun could fix it. A split-second decision, a last resort. The Friz booked it towards the mall, a good 500 yards away.

The terrorist van screeched as it turns sharply, giving chase. They fired with a machine gun blast, ripping apart the pavement as they did so.

“Fuck!” Arnold cursed, hiding behind the truck. Useless. Damn useless. “Friz, wait! No!”

The Friz kept running for it towards the mall, the van closing the difference. There was no way she could possibly outrun it at this point. It’d take a miracle to stop it.

The terrorist screamed a curse in Libyan, before opening fire. Arnold’s camera, without thinking, was focused on the scene in front of them.

The bullets ripped into the Friz, tearing the scientist down.

“_Valerie! _ Oh my God!”

Arnold snarled at the terrorists.

“You _ bastards _!”

As if they heard him, the van swerved and starting coming towards Arnold. He was left out in the open, exposed. There was only one option. The bus.

Arnold made a run towards the bus, his heart pounding in his ears. He could feel the blood rushing through his body, his breathing fast and heavy. The Libyan took aim and pulled the trigger, only to jam. A brief moment was all Arnold needed. He lunged for it.

He hit the bus steps, pulling himself to his feet and yanking on the metal pull, the door snapping shut. Up into the driver’s seat he went. The control panel lay out before him, and Arnold could only stare at them in bewilderment. He didn’t know how to work this thing.

The key. The ignition. He could do that. He snapped his seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition, the bus roaring to life. Arnold turned it over, shifting into first. He slammed his foot down, pedal to the metal. Floor it.

The bus squealed before tearing across the parking lot, the van giving chase. 

Quickly, the speedometer hit 30, 40. 

The terrorist behind him leaned out of the van and took aim. 

Arnold looked out of the side view mirror. 

The speedometer hit 50 and kept climbing. 

The gunner fired. The bullets ripped into the pavement behind him.

The pedal was all the way to the floor.

75 and climbing.

Arnold checked his mirror. The van was still keeping up.

_ “Let’s see if you bastards can do 90!” _

The bus continued. 80. The van was losing ground.

85.

Gauges and indicators began to light up behind Arnold. The flux capacitor was about to kick in.

86.

87.

88.


End file.
